His Greatest Weakness
by CapitalCheese
Summary: Tom Riddle's past is shrouded in mystery and very few have the courage to venture into his world. Join him as he discovers his path, his destiny, and his greatest weakness... TomOC
1. The Beginning

Disclaimer: I own Nothing. Nothing is a great fellow, but doesn't give me much money... All character's you recognize belong to the great and powerful JKR, and I bow before her mightiness.   
  
This story is basically AU because it goes against a lot of stuff that JKR says about Voldemort (mostly the whole never knowing love thing...). I did my very best to stay true to the books, but I do have to tweak here and there. Feel free to flame, but be gentle, this is my very first story and I'm still working out the kinks in my writing style. Be warned: I love fluff. None in this chapter, but it will come. Oh yes, it will come.  
  
His Greatest Weakness  
  
The cries of a woman in distress echoed through the long halls of St. Michael's Memorial Hospital in the small town of Little Hangleton, mingling effortlessly with the unusually violent lightening storm that shook the small village and causing all within hearing distance too cringe in horror. In ten years time, if you were ask anyone in attendance that night about that woman's pain filled howls, their faces would turn ashen and they would recall it as the most horrific sound they had ever heard; comparable to the sounds small children hear in their most terrible nightmares.   
  
All night, doctors and nurses of varying specialties could be seen rushing in and out of room twenty-seven, where the cries were originating, and, every time one was seen emerging from inside that room, they always adorned the same pallid, horrified expression. Curious patients came out of their rooms to find our what was happening, and even some people off the streets, who had heard the screams over the pounding thunder, came inside to find out what was happening. Bits and pieces of whispered discussions between doctors were the only clues though. Half-heard statements ("-so much blood-" "-never in my career-" "-she won't last the night-" "-might save the baby-") did not provide much hope about the poor tortured woman and many began praying that her pain would end soon.  
  
One particularly motivated patient, Gregory Burgess, managed to sneak inside the room for a few minutes before the head nurse drove him out. He later told anyone who would listen that it was the most heart-wrenching sight he had ever beheld. According to him, the woman inside was no older than twenty and quite pregnant. He supposed that something was going horribly wrong with the delivery because, as he explained, when his wife had given birth to their first child, there hadn't been "a quarter of the blood that this young lady had surrounding her. It was everywhere." In later musings, Mr. Burgess would also remember one seemingly insignificant fact about that night: "She said a lot of none-sense. Something about none of us 'muggles' being able to help her, said we needed to get her a 'wizard healer'. The poor lass was obviously delusional."  
  
It was nearly dawn before the woman's cries finally ended, and the tiny squalls of an infant were heard. The group of patients that remained outside the room cheered and hug one another, thanking God that it was over and that the baby was alive, although concern for the mother still faintly lingered.   
  
"Congratulations," a husky female voice said from within room twenty-seven, most patients recognized it as the head nurse, "you have a healthy baby boy."  
  
A choked sob answered the nurse. "May I hold him?" The mother's voice was barely audible and raw, almost painful to hear.  
  
There was an odd silence from within the room, and even though they could not see what was happening, the patients assumed that the doctors and nurses were exchanging apprehensive glances.  
  
"Er, I'm afraid not, dear," Head Nurse Paterson finally answered.  
  
"W-what? Why not?" The young mother choked.  
  
There was another silence. This time the voice of Doctor McCauley answered, "The labor was quite trying on your body and we don't think that it would be wise for you to-"  
  
"-Hold my child once before I die?" She interrupted bitterly.  
  
"Nonsense child!" Nurse Paterson answered vehemently, "You'll be just fine. You just need your rest."  
  
The young mother snorted in disdain, "Do not insult my intelligence! I know full and well I am to face death within the hour!"  
  
The anger in her voice caused those surrounding to recoil slightly.  
  
An anguished sob broke through the mother once again and her voice got very small, "I just want to hold my baby. Just once ... before I go. Please."  
  
There was once again a contemplative silence among the staff, and all the patients in the hall mutually agreed that if the doctors did not let this poor, suffering mother hold her precious babe, they would all rush in room twenty-seven and force the staff to let her.  
  
A determined cough broke the undecided stillness. "Er, well, you heard her Nurse Paterson. Let her hold her child."  
  
"Yes, Doctor."  
  
The young mother could be heard sobbing softly and cooing lightly to her baby. "He's so beautiful. He'll be strong someday, a strapping man ... handsome and wonderful."  
  
"Of course he will, dear," Nurse Paterson agreed.  
  
"Have you thought of a name for him, Mrs. Riddle?" Asked Doctor McCauley.  
  
There was a thoughtful pause. "Yes. Yes, I believe I have."  
  
"Well?"  
  
"Tom," she smiled, "Tom Marvolo Riddle." 


	2. Stockholm's

**Disclaimer: I own Nothing. Nothing is a great fellow, but doesn't give me much money... All character's, places, and situations you recognize belong to the great and powerful JKR, and I bow before her mightiness. **

**Also the description of Stockholm's doesn't belong to me either. I got it from a link at the Harry Potter Lexicon. And no defamation is meant against Stockholm's. I'm sure it s a great place, but for my stupid little story I'm making it a bit nasty.**

**Thank you so much to ****Deirdre for reviewing my story! If it hadn't been for your review I probably would not have continued my story.**

**Sorry this took so long but I had a terrible case of writers block.**

**Fee free to review, or not review, or flame. BUT please be gentle, this is a first for me.**

**His Greatest Weakness**

Nearly eleven years had passed since the night of the terrible storm in Little Hangelton and the world had continued much as it always had. The sun still rose and fell over the little town, illuminating the small cottages where the same families had resided for decades. The Cromwell's were still nearest to St. Michael's; the Riddle's still inhabited the mansion across from the old church and cemetery; and the Paterson's still lived in the small chalet beside the local pub. Yes, very little had changed. 

In fact, the only real change that had occurred over the past several years was when Fleming's orphanage for boys burnt down a year or so ago, leaving an enormous empty lot in its place. No one really knew what had caused the fire, and very few even cared. Most even viewed it as a Godsend. "It was a no good place, full of ruffians," Mr. Riddle commented as he looked upon the ashes. "It's better that its gone." No matrons and very few boys survived the inferno. Those that did survive were sent to Stockwell Orphanage for young lads several villages away. Many of the surviving boys were later overheard saying that the orphans who died in the blaze had it far easier.

Stockwell, physically, was a lovely school. At the entrance to the orphanage was an ornamental arch, surmounted by a bell-turret. On the piers of the archway was the strangely unsettling inscription; "A Father of the fatherless and a Judge of the widow is God in his holy habitation." On looking from under the arch one would be struck with the size and beauty of the buildings, and the delightfully airy and open character of the whole institution. One would assume by its construction that it was a place of sweetness and light, where merry voices ring out, and happy children play. However, that was certainly not the case.

If one were to look more closely they would see that there was a distinct coldness surrounding the grounds. A strange and overwhelming sense of loss and misery that clung to you, enveloped you, and suffocated all those who entered. In place of happy and rosy children playing games were sallow and bitter young men who thought of nothing but escaping this place of pain, hunger and disease. Most of the boys, having never even known love, or comfort, or a gentle caress, turned to violence against one another. Like a pack of predatory animals, with the consent of their own Headmaster, they would pick out the weakest and turn the poor child inside out until driven mad... or worse. Although rumors had floated by for years in the nearby villages, no one could actually confirm how many of the orphans jumped off the roof before their eleventh birthday, preferring death to one more excruciating hour in a place that hated them.

The Headmaster of Stockholm's was a cruel and fanatically religious man by the name of Reverend Frederick Glockstill. The boys feared his punishments more than anything their peers could offer. According to one of the older boys, Joseph McClain, Revered Glockstill once starved a young boy to near death for accidentally dropping his Bible in the halls. Everyone lived in fear of the Reverend, even the staff.

Well, all that is until the day a young ten-year-old boy named Tom Riddle came to Stockholm.


End file.
